


the candle mixtape

by tigerbox



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-22 22:54:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8304337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigerbox/pseuds/tigerbox
Summary: fresh and newly arrived trainee mark observes infamous sm trainee taeyong from a distance. sometimes getting to know someone takes the course over a few years. interspersed with the hopes of debuting soon.





	

You're sitting at a bus stop the first time I see you.  
  
It's the beginning of summer break, but it's lightly drizzling. You ignore the mist and sit on the damp bench, earbuds rumpled between your hair. They are the generic kind, that probably came with your first mp3 player, music buzzing with a constant grainy quality, but you don't care, because this is how people don't disturb you on the public commute.  
  
A book sits idle in your lap. The cover has a sparkly fancy " _O_ " on it - "Othello." You flip back and forth over the same page five times because you are only pretending to read, most of your attention spread to an attractive girl across the street who looks lost. She's got these flimsy rain boots on and she's causing a bit of distress to those who pass her by asking for directions. Still, she's far away that there's no point in pretending there's anything to do to help, so you observe, losing your concentration over the pages of 27 and 28.  
  
Your gaze is something to behold, even from far away there is a strong assertiveness about it, so much so that the ' _ajusshi_ ' next to you on the bench can't stop giving you the once over. You bend your neck down solemnly, mistaking him as asking for an apology. You're just so used to it, apologizing lately; it's become second nature to you.  
  
"It isn't polite to stare," my mother says from my side, also mistaking my glance towards you for something else. The ajusshi next to you is an amputee and he's shaking his cast leg on the pavement to dust off the rain.  
  
My bus gets to the bus stop first and my mom and dad surround me to get on. My mom reaches for my hand, and being an embarrassed twelve year old I try to resist it, but my mother starts whining loudly in English about safety in other countries and I reluctantly accept it, awkwardly looking in your direction to see if you hear all the commotion. But of course you don't.  
  
You've got those earbuds on, book open, and the girl across the street is still lost.  
  
It's not in your nature to notice me. At least not yet.  
  
  
  
  
  
You're in the second practice room of my grandiose welcome to SME tour. My parents have convinced the tour guide to let them stay in the renovated cafeteria for a little longer, but I stay on the tour, curious to see what my new home is going to be like. The door opens and the music has just ended. You look winded, pulling the end of your hoodie upwards so you can wipe your face with it. You're rehearsing with the other older trainees, Johnny, Yuta, some other guys whose names aren't worth remembering. The tour guide does some introductions formally, scrunching her nose as she does so. She looks miffed that none of you are wearing name tags; it's also not in her favor to start remembering any of the names of the countless trainees that come and go.  
  
"Hey," Johnny approaches me first and extends his hand for a handshake. He's got a warm quality about him, but more so than that, I immediately feel at ease. _English_. You, on the other hand, bow ninety degrees, polite. I don't take offense, but I read the expression that you throw at me very well. Trainee #5017.  
  
It's not your fault. I've been warned about how this works.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The other trainees talk about you behind your back. The scoop is that you're famous. Or infamous rather, but famous all the same. SM's favorite. Even Lee Soo Man and Boa have come to watch you practice once.  
  
"He's a legend," Jeno says, ice cream spilling down the side of his face, "plus he can dance."  
  
"Not only that," Jaemin adds, little sticky fingers getting the sheets of the beds in the dorm completely gross, "he's what they call the triple threat. Cuz he can dance, rap, and has visuals."  
  
"He can rap?"  
  
"Yea, like he can actually rap. Like how they do in Show Me the Money."  
  
"What's Show Me the Money?"  
  
"Oh, Mark. You're so American."  
  
"But I'm Canadian."  
  
Jeno's ice cream accidentally goes over the side of the bunk bed and spills all over the floor. He doesn't even bother to pick it up. Jaemin leaps off the bed and cleans it up with a used Kleenex, dumping it into the overflowing trash bin.  
  
"No, but really Mark," Jaemin's eyes light up when he talks about you, like he's in pure worship and jealousy all at once, "he's amazing. He's so good that SM doesn't even care about his sketchy past. That's how good he is at rapping. That good."  
  
Jeno agrees, grabbing the last ice cream on the table before anyone else can. The only fun a trainee can have. "Rap God Taeyong."

Rap God Taeyong.

 

 

 

  
  
Rap God Taeyong is what some people call you. Other not so nice people call you Scamyong down the halls, scoundrel, swindler, other nasty Korean words I don't know the meaning of but that my parents would only say around me in hushed tones. Still, I get the gist, and regardless of whether it's good or bad, after two months of summer break training, I realize one thing. You're an urban myth in the SM dungeon.  
  
Almost 100% guaranteed to debut.  
  
  
  
  
  
There's no one in the recording studio around 2 AM. I play hooky from the practice room and no one notices because I'm just another number, another trainee lost in the system. It's absurdly easy to break in and access the files. Deciphering the hangul is hard but recognizing your initials plastered over some of the tapings is child's play; in huge jet black letters " **TY.** "  
  
The date of the one I scramble to pick reads 0701. Your birthday. My Beats by Dre headphones are already locked on my head. I press play, the reverberation of your rap taking over, knocking me senseless. Your rap is hard, clear, and concise. I repeat, repeat it again, trying to get a hold of the hook, the way you control your breath in between verses, the way you spit your words cold on the ground. When the hook becomes ingrained in my memory, I take my headphones off, realizing my eyes have been closed the whole time.  
  
You stand there, at the door of the recording studio. You look menacing almost, your forehead striking out beneath your snapback. You're called a legend for a reason. You invented practicing and staying up late at 2 AM in devotion of the art. The light from the hallway behind you impedes upon your shadow and you look ten feet taller. You don't say anything, my nerves gutting all across the floor, waiting for you to say something first. I put the file back, unsure if I should hand it to you instead. I bow my head, hoping you accept my feeble apology.  
  
"Was it good?" you ask, but it doesn't sound like a question. More like a threat before a swift blow to my head of sorts. I choke on my words and bow again, running away before I can think of an appropriate response. Remember, I am twelve. A kid.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Dude, you're so obvious about it," Johnny hands me a packet of ketchup because I've already used three of my own on the french fries. It's Friday and Johnny's taken me out again, but this time he's splurging because it's the last Friday before we go back home for the school year.  
  
"Obvious about what?" Sometimes, Johnny does this thing where he just laughs at me. Today's one of those days, and he's laughing in my face while eating his burger with his mouth open. He takes care of me, this trainee, Johnny. That English kinship, a foreigner's understanding. He reaches over and steals a fry, still chuckling.  
  
"You should just ask Taeyong if you want to listen to his raps. Or hang out. Or ogle. Whatever."  
  
Johnny throws a different fry at me, then looks like he regrets wasting it. My burger remains on my tray, half-eaten amidst my confusion.  
  
"Ogle? What?"  
  
"Listen, Taeyong's not as intimidating as he looks. His bite is worse than his bark."  
  
"You mean his bark is worse than his bite?"  
  
"I'm drawing fuzzy on the saying, but what I'm _saying_ is I'm scarier than he is honestly. You're lucky I took you under my wing kid."  
  
"Thanks...I think."  
  
"I have a reputation too you know. Bad ass Johnny."  
  
"Sure hyung," I say, trepidation to not get on his bad side as he is the one paying for my meal, "but I wouldn't know where to start."  
  
"Kids these days," and Johnny chuckles at me again, like I'm just the funniest thing he's ever seen. "I can't believe I am not going to see you until Christmas break."  
  
We finish our burgers up, a combination of ketchup packets littering our trays at the end. Johnny gives me a hug goodbye like a real brother would, grinning from ear to ear as he shoves something in my pocket.  
  
  
  
  
  
I only remember about it right before I go to sleep at the dorm, un-tucking it safely when the eyes of Jeno and Jaemin aren't privy to nose around.  
  
It's the digits of your phone number.  
  
  
  
  
  
You meet me in that second practice room, where we first met. This must be your favorite training spot, because you're always in this one in particular. It's got those trademark traditional sky curtains on one side, covering up the windows and the world below. You've lined up three water bottles meticulously by the sweater you've already launched off, damp with sweat from your pre-rehearsal before I've come along.  
  
"So Johnny says you're good at rapping," you establish. Your eyes do a little fire dance as you glaze over me, like you're making sure I'm not pulling a fast one on you. You've got the sleeves rolled up on your long shirt and your watch dangles out. You watch the time, concerned over when I'm going to leave so that you can get back to practicing, or concerned about whether or not I'll make my flight later in the afternoon.  
  
"Um," I try to stay humble, unable to be confident like you. You take your eyes off of your watch and look back at me again, as if you are contemplating if I'm stupid or if I just don't know enough Korean. Like as if Johnny's supposed to be here, mediate.  
  
"Can you rap a little?"  
  
"Um," I say again, because the way you stare at people is so nerve-wracking at first, I can't possibly think of anything else to say. "I don't know."  
  
The ends of your mouth fold a little, upward. This is you smiling, for the first time since I've seen you. You've got nice teeth, really white and Colgate looking. Your smile also takes me aback.  
  
"Mark, you're really cute."  
  
You come over and pat my shoulder, trying to put me at ease. But I'm twelve and this just makes me giggle like a dumb boy. Then I remember. "I have a mixtape."  
  
You take it out of my outstretched hand immediately, curious. I offer you my headphones, knowing they are way better than the ones I saw you using at the bus stop. You make your way to the sky side of the room and sit down besides the water bottle line, quiet in observation. Your dark eyes gloss over and it's hard to read your expression as you remain silent. You mull it over, then pull the headphones off your ears. Finally you look up at me, after what seems like a billion and a trillion centuries passing by.  
  
"Was it good?" it's my turn to ask. The ends of your mouth fold upward again, and your smile is practically blinding.  
  
"SM is lucky to have you." and then, when a knowing gait, because you are just too self-aware for anyone else to catch on, you ruffle my hair, shaking your hand at the crown of my messy hair, "Rap God Mark."  
  
Rap God Mark. I almost choke, unable to process your compliment. You take your hand slowly out of my hair and unwrap my headphones off your neck and offer them back.  
  
"Keep them," I say, even though it means I'll have a very quiet flight back home. You smile again, taking the headphones as a secondhand present and pat my shoulder once more, wishing me a safe flight.  
  
Johnny might be right- you're not as scary as you seem.  
  
  
  
  
  
"I have a present for you." you say, ushering me into your dorm room. It's winter break and there's snow on the ground outside but the floors of your dorm are keeping my feet so warm, I'm practically gliding around in my socks. You've got a black scarf on and your neck is all bundled up while you walk around, showing me everything. It's the first time me or Donghyuck have gotten to visit and we're kind of overjoyed because your dorm is a lot cooler than ours. There's some lewd magazines lamely hidden beneath the sofa cushions that Donghyuck first discovers and occupies his time with.  
  
"It's Yuta's," you explain as we walk past your bed. You share your room with another newer trainee named Jaehyun and his stuff is everywhere on his side, while your side is distinctively neat and pristine and organized.  
  
"Cleaning is my new hobby," you also explain as I find a collection of Febreze scents on your dresser.  
  
"Do I look different?" I pump my chest out, boasting it in your direction. It's been three months since you've last seen me, and I hope you notice.  
  
"Oh, Mark Lee. You got taller?" you laugh when I nod, and then you nod back, "Soon you'll be taller than me I'll bet."  
  
"So you said something about a present?"  
  
I look around the room. Everything's been contained or hidden on your end except for that  OTHELLO book, a feathered bookmark sticking out near the beginning of the pages.  
  
"Have you been practicing while you've been gone?"  
  
"Yes," I lie to you, and then meander around the truth before sitting on your bed. "Well, sort of. School's been really hard and-"  
  
"That sounds like an excuse," you tell me. Guilt eats my insides. You open your closet door with a startle, tons of black clothes folded on display. "My favorite color is black."  
  
You teach me a lot of things about you like this. In casual passing. I know you love to rap. And cook. And clean. You like to wear black. You like summer more than you like winter.  
  
"I'm sorry hyung."  
  
"Present," you hand me a spiral notebook, shockingly the color of a pooled black with silver stars looping around, "for you to write your raps."  
  
"Thanks hyung," you look at me proud, ruffling my hair like you did over the summer. It's a brotherly gesture, but it feels a whole lot different than from when Johnny does it, "This is awesome."  
  
"You better compose a lot when you get back home. To Canada," you say Canada slowly, like you want to make sure you get the pronunciation right for me, "that way when you come back in the summer we'll have a lot of songs to collaborate on for when we get to debut."  
  
You light up when you say the word _debut_ , as if it's all you think about. The scarf around your neck seems looser almost, less restrictive. I look down at the notebook again, and flip open the first page. In familiar letters, likened to your audio files in the recording studio, it's your signature. ' **TY**.'  
  
"This is so you, Taeyong hyung."  
  
"The black represents me. But the stars are all you. Because you're a star. Get it?" you lack a good sense of humor, but I laugh because I don't want to hurt your feelings.  
  
"Funny."  
  
You ruffle my hair again, but keep your hand in my hair a little longer this time. Outside the door, the screams of Yuta screaming at Donghyuck can be heard.  
  
"Get away from my porn mags you underaged hoodlum!"  
  
  
  
  
  
Summer break means an endless supply of popsicles. Donghyuck clutches a plastic bag of them, some empty popsicle sticks already clinging to the bottom, hues of ugly lime guilty on his bottom lip. He doesn't care, nor does he care when he sees you, Ten, Johnny, Doyoung, and Hansol huddled in a circle in the middle of the room, in deep conversation.  
  
"Hyungs!" he bellows, his loud cracking voice ricocheting off the mirrored walls, "Guess what?"  
  
You look up, taking your outstretched hands off the backs of Doyoung and Ten. Your hair is shorter, dark bangs obstructing your view. You've got a sleeveless tank on, assumably because it's so unbearably stuffy in the room, and your thin arms hang out from under them, looking for a new place to rest. You don't seem amused by Donghyuck's antics, and you don't acknowledge the popsicle bag that he throws into an unsuspecting Doyoung's lap.  
  
"It's so cold!" Doyoung whines, opening it up anyway, and taking first selection of whatever's left inside. You take a look at me behind Donghyuck but don't say anything in response. Instead, Johnny gets up and rushes over past Donghyuck, pulling me into his arms and leaping me into the air. I feel like a toddler all over again, but still it's fun, and I almost hit the ceiling light with my head from Johnny's hold.  
  
"Welcome back!" Johnny practically screams, overpowering Donghyuck's loud wailing from behind, "Shit, kid. You got taller!"  
  
You still don't look amused in the slightest. You resume your frustrated glance and focus back on the bland clock on the wall. You're counting down to something, and the rest of us are just in your way.  
  
"Are you guys going to guess what or not?" Donghyuck is bellowing again. Johnny puts me down and walks over to smack Donghyuck on the head. He's the fourth one to do it, minus you.  
  
"What?' Ten responds, much too innocently. Donghyuck taunts him with a popsicle stick, circling it around his face.  
  
"We're a little busy. What is it that you want?" you say. You take everyone aback with your cutthroat manner. Johnny looks at me, and then back at you. Offended by your formal tone. Your eyes are flamed up towards Donghyuck, then me. I get it. We're just a nuisance. From your guys' impeding debut.  
  
"Gee, hyung," Donghyuck starts. He stands up, despite Ten's beckoning for him to sit back down. "We just wanted to share some good news with you."  
  
"Well, what is it?"  
  
"Mark's back for starters," he snaps, already walking towards the door before I even have a chance to follow, "for good. As in he's not going back home after the summer because his parents trust us all to make sure he's taken care of."  
  
You should feel guilty at this point, like the others immediately look, but you don't. You tap the ground with your fingernail. Maybe a little remorse.  
  
"Also, managers said we're moving in with you guys this weekend. Congratulations."  
  
Donghyuck slams the door out, and I have no choice but to follow. The joyous popsicle bag stays still in Doyoung's lap but none of you bother to finish it.  
  
  
  
  
  
"He's just a little moody," Johnny has an arm slung around me, and he tosses his head around like none of it matters, "he's just sensitive right now. So much at stake, so many variables with this brand fucking new idea they are trying to experiment on with us."  
  
There's no one else around in the tiny arcade, but still we head over to the air hockey table in the back. Johnny picks up the puck but hesitates on dropping it in, seeing the worry on my face.  
  
"You don't seem sensitive."  
  
"Yeah, well. Either I debut or I don't." Johnny shrugs, as if it was it that simple. "Look, don't feel bad. The whole living together thing is gonna be awesome. I mean one of us is bound to kill Donghyuck by the end of the first week, but it doesn't necessarily mean it's going to be Taeyong."  
  
I chuckle a little, feeling relieved. I pick up my paddle. "My bet's on Doyoung actually."  
  
"Really? I was thinking myself."  
  
We both laugh but I must still look worried, because Johnny drops his paddle and walks over to my side and kicks my shin lightly.  
  
"Look kid. How many times do I have to tell you not to fret over Taeyong. Just give him space, he'll come around." Johnny smirks and walks back to his side, grabbing his paddle and hitting the puck in a sneak attack. "Honestly, he just needs to get laid."  
  
"Hyung," my mouth opens wide, and I look around to make sure no one in the absolutely deserted arcade is listening, "you can't say that."  
  
"But it's true," Johnny smiles wide, taking his paddle and hitting the puck again, scoring against a taken aback me, "why do you think I'm not so sensitive these days?"  
  
  
  
  
  
When I go to sleep that night, last time in the junior dorm, I rustle against the sheets endlessly, unable to find a comfortable position.  
  
I think over it way too much for my own good.  
  
  
  
  
  
You open the door for us after one knock. You've been expecting us. An invigorating waft enamors our stomachs from behind you. Kimchi jigae and bone marrow stew. You look comfortable with your gym shorts on, kitchen apron covering it up. You take the top box out of my hands without asking, splendid teeth on display. "Come on in guys. I made you lunch!"  
  
Donghyuck exchanges a look at me, then at Jeno and Jaemin behind. You walk down the empty living room and take us down the hall. The four of us are to share the tiniest room on the end, formerly Jaehyun's and yours, now making the seven of you cram into the other two rooms for a total of eleven. There's rumors that Taeil is going to join the group officially too, so it makes sense why you've been so livid about us, the dorm, the group in general. Still, you don't show any signs of it, and you open the door to your former room almost with mistaken glee, waving to where your bed is now replaced with two sets of bunk beds.  
  
"Mark, as the eldest, you get first pick," you instruct, coming over and giving my shoulders a rough squeeze. Jeno and Jaemin snicker behind you, but you pay no attention, even ignoring Donghyuck's eye roll as he complains about wanting to put his stuff down.  
  
"Um," I say, my favorite thing to say around you, "I guess I'll take this one." I put my box and backpack down on the bottom bunk where your bedside used to be. You settle my other box down as well, happy with my choice. You look down, remembering that you still have your apron on, and you sheepishly take it off, the corny sunflowers disappearing as you fold it up.  
  
Jeno and Jaemin automatically scramble to the other bunk, leaving Donghyuk to take the bunk on top of mine.  
  
"Well I'll let you settle in," you say, squeezing my shoulders once more, "lunch is on the table after you unpack. After!"  
  
Donghyuck grumbles when you shut the door, rolling his eyes again. "He's too much of a clean freak."  
  
"It's good to be organized."  
  
Donghyuck looks at me and scoffs. "You would say that. Teacher's pet."  
  
"What?" The colloquialism of whatever Donghyuck says gets lost on me. Jaemin and Jeno do that thing where they exchange a look again, then just plainly giggle.  
  
Jaemin jumps off his bed, ignoring his boxes and pinching my cheek on his way out the door to lunch. "He means to say, you're Taeyong's favorite. Marky Mark."  
  
  
  
  
  
"Am I your favorite, hyung?"  
  
"Favorite what?"  
  
"Favorite...you know...trainee I guess."  
  
You've taken the seat adjacent to mine in the recording studio and you're so close that sometimes our knees accidentally knock. You never retract yours though, sometimes taking the opportunity to lean one of your legs on top of mine to stretch. Like now. You're used to it, this kind of familiar, forward skinship. I'm not. Your shoe is hurting my kneecap but you continue to keep yourself extended on me as we listen to the backtracking of our mixtape. And I let you. You look at me and say nothing. You reach over and skim through my black notebook, reading over the lyrics that expand over the course of one year and a half.  
  
"I don't like labels." You finalize, fingers tracing the messy cursive of my letters in English. You gloss over them, and keep going back a page, like the time you did at the bus stop "reading" Othello. Like it's not your main focal point. "But yes, I do like you."  
  
"Oh." I say, and you snort, proud that I didn't respond with an ' _um_ ' this time.  
  
You sit in silence again, and you force me to do so as well. It's our first time in the studio together, the first time we're granted permission to basically let loose, compose, remix, make an actual mixtape together. You tell me you've been looking forward to this; I try not to look so excited.  
  
You rap over my lyrics, translating the English and swapping them over into Korean with ease.  
  
"Who said we needed Johnny?" I retort, and you smile, because really, who needs Johnny. Time goes by slowly and then way too fast in this six by six block of space. You embody so much of the tight box, your spitfire raps permeating deeply in the air. You're not dancing but by the time we finish practicing the lyrics of three songs, you're sweating, lines of it falling flatly off the top of your brow.  
  
"Shit," you say, taking a deep exhale, leaning back into your chair after coming in from the recording. You place your shoe back on my knee again like it belongs there. "I needed that."  
  
"Johnny hyung says you need to get laid. That it'd help with your stress." I blurt out. I cover my mouth too late. Your eyes widen in horrified expression. You're going to hit me. You're going to rage. You're going to flip. No, instead, you take another silent moment. And then you giggle, the same suppressed giggle with a hand to your mouth Donghyuck does whenever he's done something bad.  
  
"Mark Lee." is all you say.  
  
We sit in silence again. There's another bland clock on the studio wall. You don't watch it this time, but I do. I wait until exactly five minutes is up before I break the silence again.  
  
"I'm sorry. I'm an idiot."  
  
"It's okay Mark. Johnny's probably right," you're smiling, a genuine smile. You look at the empty box in front of us probably envisioning the next time you'd be in there, recording something real. Something that others would get to hear. And love.  
  
"I've never had sex before." I blurt before I can comprehend what I'm doing. Self-destruction. You smile again, kind of protective. You take your shoe off my knee and sit up, placing a gentle hand on my back.  
  
"It's not all that it's cracked up to be," you say. I take a breath, relieved that you didn't start with a conversation about the birds and bees. Still, you have a look on your face that says you have something more to say. "You shouldn't have to worry about that stuff now."  
  
"It's all I think about sometimes," I confess, wondering if I'm supposed to regret it, "have you ever been in love hyung?"  
  
"No," you answer almost immediately. It must be true then, because you never answer anyone immediately without mulling something over. "Performing is the only thing I've ever truly loved, you know?"  
  
"Yeah," I say back. I know.  
  
You're looking at me again, all sorts of funny. You assess the way I slouch in my seat, the way my shoes are untied, the way my hair doesn't sit still in one straight direction. You've got that fire in your eyes, that strong gaze. You're waiting for something, but I can't figure out what. After a while, you relax your arms behind your back, in a lofty yawn. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Whatever analysis you did on me was totally normal.  
  
At fourteen years old, me never being in love was totally normal, status quo. At age eighteen, you on the other hand, never experiencing love, was a fluke.  
  
You place the sweaty snapback from your head on to mine, balancing it precariously so that my eyes are still visible beneath the brim. Your turn to give me a secondhand present.  
  
"Can we record the second verse in rap 3 again?" You ask.  
  
"Sure, hyung."  
  
It's a change of subject. But I accept it.  
  
  
  
  
  
"In Korea, we call that a crush."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Unrequited love, so to speak." Donghyuck is dangling a piece of string cheese in the air but not eating it. He's always playing with food when you're not looking in the dorm instead of consuming it. He looks smarmy. If you weren't at practice, you'd probably see him and say that's his ' _brat face_.'  
  
"No, I don't-I'm not-" I try to process whatever Donghyuck is trying to babble, concentration split when he drops the cheese piece on the floor.  
  
"Look, I'm not saying you're, you know, whatever. I'm just saying you have a crush."  
  
"But I don't!"  
  
"Hey, hey, hey," he waves his hand, because it's not a big deal to him at all to have this kind of conversation at the age of fourteen and oh so casually too, "I get this is taboo to talk about. But it's not about that. I'm just talking about your feelings."  
  
"Yes, but-"  
  
"It's different for us, you know. Celebrities. Idols. Trainees. The rules are different. We just don't talk about it out loud." He takes another piece of string cheese and starts to dangle it again. "I mean, you're not the first person with a crush on Taeyong hyung. Have you met Ten hyung?"  
  
"I don't think speculating on Chittaphon hyung's preferences is fair-"  
  
"Who's speculating anything? I'm saying he used to have a crush on Taeyong hyung too when he first met him. Plain and simple," he drops the cheese again and drops his smarmy face, angry at himself, "of course his crush went away after two months after he realized how obnoxious and OCD Taeyong hyung was about every little detail, but so what. I mean he's practically had a crush on all the hyungs but that's another story."  
  
"Okay," I say. I knit my eyebrows, completely perplexed.  
  
"So what if your crush is lasting a little over the course of two years?" He closes his eyes in happiness, sitting back and finally eating the next piece of string cheese. "It will fade. Once you find something better."  
  
"Okay," I repeat. I snatch the bag of string cheese out of Donghyuck's hands before he can ruin another one.  
  
Something better.  
  
  
  
  
  
Something better comes in the shape of a new trainee named Yerin. You guys are standing behind her during our monthly evaluations, pushing her towards me. This is probably Donghyuck's idea, but there's twelve of you and one of me, and your bashful smile behind the new trainees says everything. You guys start to close the gap from my side of the stage towards her and the other girls. She puts her head down, bashful.  
  
She's kind of cute, honestly. Big mouth, rosy cheeks. She sort of reminds me of Victoria noona, but younger with doe eyes. You nod your head towards her and me, encouraging it. Encouraging me to find love.  
  
"Hey," I eventually manage to say, coughing it out. The other guys are making faces behind her. You too engage, but more nicely. You really want me to be happy. "I'm Mark."  
  
"I'm Yeri."  
  
You give a huge thumbs up from behind. I look back at Yeri and she's hiding her mouth behind her hand. It's actually super cute, I think. You look estatic.  
  
This is me being happy.  
  
  
  
  
We last for five months before it just fizzles. It's like being back in primary school again, and passing notes in the classroom that gets intercepted by all the students before it gets to you. Funny at first, but tiresome having everyone in your business.  
  
I search for you up and down the practice hallways to tell you first when it happens. You're in the piano room, asleep on the keys, still clutching on to your music notes.  
  
"It didn't work out," I tell you, expecting you to piece together the rest of the puzzle. You look at me with tired eyes, slight bags forming under them.  
  
You're too young for this.  
  
"Okay," you react slowly, falling back asleep.  
  
You're hitting the far two left keys with your nose, but I don't dare to wake you up from your slumber.  
  
  
  
  
  
"We're not going to be able to hang out much like this after we debut," you tell me. By ' _we_ ' you don't mean me, you mean you older guys who are a shoe-in to debut soon according to whispering sources in the company. "I'm going to miss this."  
  
Your bed is too small for the both of us, but you let me stay there regardless. Donghyuck has squandered our room of smelling good by trying to make portable hot dogs in a closed space, so Jeno and Jaemin have escaped to Taeil and Doyoung and Hansol's room while Donghyuck is relegated to the sofa. You brush my hair with your fingers, bringing me in close.  
  
There is a shout outside the ajar door, suspiciously sounding like Yuta telling Donghyuck he has to throw the burnt hot dogs to the outside trash, not just the kitchen trash can. You laugh, then frown almost instantly.  
  
"Are you going to miss living with all of us?" I ask. You contemplate this. Living with just the older guys. Privacy. Solitude. Quiet. No Donghyuck. No me.  
  
"Nah," you throw your head back on the pillow we're both resting on, turning your fire gaze to the ceiling, "well, maybe a little."  
  
You stay quiet again, leaving me to figure out how to close the gaps in the silence. But I stay silent too. You like it like this, I've gathered.  
  
"Hey, hyung," I bring up, right before I feel myself getting real sleepy. You keep that hand in my hair, almost too soothing, comfortable all at once. It reminds me of home, reminds me of my mother, back in Canada.  
  
"Mmm?"  
  
"Promise me one thing."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You won't forget me when you debut."  
  
You make an undecipherable sound, and then take your hand out of my hair. Your eyelashes look extravagantly long from the side, fake. It's the last thing I remember before sleep consumes me.  
  
"Likewise, Mark Lee."  
  
  
  
  
  
You've got this huge widened grin plastered on your face. You're standing in the kitchen, pacing from the water dispenser and to the sink again.  
  
"Hurry up," the manager is fretting all of us, constantly looking down the hall for any stragglers. Mainly Ten who is still in the bathroom, making us late. You don't care, and you shrug your shoulders at him. "We're going to be late."  
  
"What's this all about?" Johnny in comparison, looks absolutely nervous. We're all supposed to go to this big meeting. All of us. Debut, I think.  
  
_Debut, we all think_.  
  
The manager doesn't say anything and when Ten finally emerges and everyone gives their loud and overzealous opinion about how long he's been gone, we start shuffling out the door. You fall behind, where I am, humming the beat to the last bar we worked on the mixtape.  
  
"This is it," you whisper to me before we board the shuttle and head to the office, an overwhelming amount of exhilaration on your face, hidden by your black cap, "this is fucking it."  
  
You turn to me before you climb in, taking me by surprise. And then you kiss me, right there, right in front of everyone. It's just a small kiss on the cheek, something everyone's done to me a hundred times, but you do it and it's there. Your lips leave a soft mark on my right cheek, leaving me flush the whole ride. You do it as a form of thank you; I interpret it to mean I'm your good luck.  
  
"Good luck," I extend the gratitude when we walk towards the building.  
  
And then you smile at me for the last time, deep and impressionable.  
  
  
  
  
  
They say you have an out of body experience when you encounter any sort of trauma. This is what happens for me. It's not death, not even an accident, but my mind leaves my body when you get pulled away and ushered into another room before any of us can register what's going on.  
  
Two corporate men pull you aside, hovering over you like bodyguards before you are out of sight. The others turn to discuss the situation, assemble what's going on before we're pulled into a room ourselves.  
  
"What's going on?" Doyoung pipes up, "Why'd they take him away?" Jeno is wailing, "Solo?" Ten suggests, "Does this mean we're debuting or is this something else?" Jaehyun asks, "Maybe it's a leader announcement," Taeil inputs, and Johnny, good ole Johnny, takes in the faces of the people in front of us, and the grim expressions that do not placate our unease, "I have a bad feeling about this."  
  
  
  
  
  
It's eerily quiet in the dorm. Your stuff has been taken out before we even get there, the post lunch after the meeting a ruse to give them time to clear out the dorm. There's no neat pile of black folded laundry in the corner of the living room behind Donghyuck's tent. Your toothbrush and razor in the bathroom are missing. There's an empty mattress now with no sheets. Even your pillow is gone, the one you used to toss your head back and contemplate on. We open up your side of the closet.  
  
There's nothing of you there, not even a goodbye letter.  
  
Yuta tries calling you first, then Hansol, then Taeil. You don't pick up, voicemail inbox inundated with messages.  
  
"It's just not fucking right." Johnny says in English, during our night huddle, where we gather around in the living room to discuss our feelings about your departure. He's twiddling the cords of his sweatshirt around and around, and doesn't bother to translate it into Korean. I don't pick up the slack either. It doesn't matter. The other guys get it.  
  
"They said they forgave him," Donghyuck adds. His cheeks are damp from all the crying he's been doing. He's going to miss ostracizing you. "They can't do this to him."  
  
"When we debut, we debut strong," Taeil says, solemnly. He's the newest appointed leader, according to SM. He's no you, but he's going to try. "In memory of Taeyong who wanted all of us to debut. Together."  
  
"Together!" Johnny chimes back, bringing out the hidden bottles of soju. We younger guys only take a couple of sips, scared to get in any more trouble. They're watching us like a hawk, they tell us in the same meeting they tell us that you're kicked out of the group. They warn us to watch ourselves before we debut soon.  
  
You don't even exist.  
  
  
  
  
  
When we disperse and go to bed, I pull out my phone when Donghyuck, Jeno and Jaemin are surely asleep. I look it up myself. Curiosity killed the cat and all that. It's everywhere. Your face, your predebut photos. Somehow it leaked.  
  
The story of your _'iljin_ ' past, the stories of you being an adolescent teenager and scamming people out of their money on the internet. I try to translate the comments with my shoddy understanding, but I get enough of it. Irresponsible, reckless, unforgivable behavior. People calling for your head.  
  
People demanding that SM kick you out of the company and that you don't have any merit or morals to debut.  
  
SM's response. SM's statement that they have followed up and deemed you unfit for their standards despite your repentance, despite your growth, despite your numerous apologies, despite your rapping, visual and performance talent. SM's agreement to appeal to citizens and terminate your training contract with the company to never debut.  
  
I pull up your number and nervously dial. You don't pick up. I don't leave a voicemail. I call again. Jaemin rustles in his bed. I don't call a third time.  
  
' _Hyung. Don't forget me._ ' I text you.  
  
I check my phone for a response all night until it's drained out of juice. I do not sleep.  
  
You never text back.  
  
  
  
  
  
You're sitting there at the bus stop the last time I see you.  
  
You've got your head low, trackpants on. You've got a surgical mask on, and sunglasses shielding your eyes. It's not an outwardly sunny day; in fact there's a bit of an overcast creating a mellow tension in the atmosphere, but you still keep your eyes covered. It's okay though, because no one recognizes you.  
  
You're not someone who is meant to be recognized.  
  
You've got some books on your lap. That fancy shimmering, _O_ , sits on your lap at the top. Still bookmarked near the beginning. You never plan to finish it. You're watching the scene across the busy street unfold. There's a group of young girls yammering nonstop and creating a ruckus. They are taking pictures, fighting over who gets to go first with a lifesize scaled poster of the newest boygroup sensation, NCT. Us. Not you.  
  
You pretend not to listen to the noise, so loud their high pitched screams can be heard over the noise of bustling traffic, rush hour and bus after bus wandering through the bus stop. You've got your ears covered with your used Beats by Dre headphones. The logo is scraping off the side from wear and tear, but you still cover your ears in pride, tapping one foot, like you're pretending to listen to something other than the girls screaming.  
  
Your bus comes first, before mine, a short trip to Hongdae away from non-stop schedules. Yours, a meaningful trip back to your part time job in the middle of the city, where you struggle to balance university life and work. A viscous cycle.  
  
People hit on you at your coffee shop, telling you you're too handsome for this mediocre life. That you're meant for something more. But you ignore these people, these strangers.  
  
You stand up too fast, so eager to move away from the situation across the traffic. You drop your books off your lap when you stand, and grab them quickly. Beneath the _O_ , I see it. The jet black notebook you gifted me once. The one I wrote all my lyrics and compositions with you in. The one I looked all over for the day you disappeared. You tuck it into the deep fold of your sweater, afraid to lose it again. You take one last look across the street at the girls, wondering if they would see you despite how incognito your outfit is trying to be.  
  
The jet black notebook stays hidden under your arm where I cannot see it. You board your bus without looking in my direction. I count down to five, waiting for you to take a glance in my direction. I wait, even watching the windows as your bus is done loading and drives by, wondering if you would see me below from the tinted windows as you fly past. But you don't.  
  
It's not in your nature to notice me. At least not anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> i took liberties w/members & their training periods in terms of who got there first.
> 
> this came out more darker than i intended :( i'm sorry


End file.
